


Tell Me About Hell

by LapfulofMisha



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M, Oh, but read it anyway, sorry - Freeform, there's no smut, yeah i can't think of any
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-08
Updated: 2017-06-08
Packaged: 2018-11-10 19:49:28
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,327
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11133534
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LapfulofMisha/pseuds/LapfulofMisha
Summary: Cas tells Dean how he rescued him from hell.





	Tell Me About Hell

Almost every night, Castiel sits outside looking up at the stars. The shining lights that landmark the infinity of the Universe remind him of home.

Tonight is no exception. He lays back on the hood of the Impala, with his hands behind his head and his legs draping over the hood so his bare feet can rest on the cool chrome bumper. Sam suggested he start dressing like a hunter, and right now he’s grateful: Dean’s soft faded jeans and Metallica t-shirt and warm black and red flannel are very comfortable and fit him almost perfectly.

A flicker of Grace whispers across his senses, letting him know that Dean is close by. He’s always wondered what (if anything) Dean feels when the Grace that’s been part of his body since he was rescued from hell tries to interact with the Grace within Castiel.

The instant Dean’s eyes land on his face, he feels it; he always feels it when Dean’s attention is focused on him. He continues to look at the stars.

Without a word, Dean hops up on the car and settles in next to him.

“Being trapped down here really sucks, huh?” he asks after a moment.

Castiel turns his head to look at him, wondering if Dean realizes how close they are. Dean’s so protective of what he deems his personal space. Also surprising is the way he simply asked his question, without prefacing it with sarcasm and jokes.

“You and Sam make it bearable,” he hears himself say.

Dean snorts.

“Is something bothering you, Dean? Do you need something?” Castiel asks, concerned.

Dean tenses. “Do I need to have a reason to hang out with you?”

“Not at all. It’s just a bit – uncharacteristic.”

Dean sits up. “If you wanna be alone, just say so,” he mutters.

Castiel grabs his arm. “I don’t.”

The green eyes appraise him coolly for a moment before he sighs. “What’s going on with you, man?”

Castiel returns his gaze to the sky. “I’m not sure,” he admits. “Lately I’ve been – questioning my purpose.” Once he starts talking, he seems unable to stop himself. “I’ve always had a mission. When I say always, Dean, I mean my purpose was unchanged for thousands of years. Now I’m – unsure. Of what I should be doing.” He realizes belatedly that he still has his hand on Dean’s arm and removes it, hoping Dean hasn’t noticed.

“Ah,” Dean smirks. “You’re having a midlife crisis.”

“I don’t understand what that means.”

Dean rolls his eyes, but Castiel continues. “These last few years – everything changed for me when I was given the order to lead the raid into hell to retrieve your soul from the pit.”

Dean stills.

“I’m not entirely sure why I was chosen,” he muses. “There were other, better soldiers than I; while I was certainly capable, the mission was extremely important. I was not the only one surprised that such a task would be entrusted to me.”

“You mean, the other angels were jealous?” Dean asks incredulously.

“In a sense, although we – they – don’t feel emotions in a way you would understand.”

Dean remains silent, but makes a face that Castiel has come to associate with the word _bullshit_.

Castiel scoots himself up so he is resting on his elbows, and settles himself more comfortably on top of the car. Dean slides up the hood until he’s leaning back against the windshield and crosses his legs.

“So, uh, what happened next?” Dean asks quietly, in a voice Castiel has never heard before.

“We entered hell, of course.”

“Just like that?” Dean asks in a disbelieving voice. “I mean, yeah, it’s not like you’d have to pack a suitcase or anything, but – didn’t you have to talk strategy or something?”

“We fought side by side since time began. There was no need to ‘talk strategy’, as you say.” Dean doesn’t answer, and Castiel finds himself remembering that moment in Heaven, united with his brothers and sisters, singularly focused on the mission, with no idea that saving a soul from hell would alter his life so completely.

Returning his attention to Dean, he sees him frowning up at the stars. “We don’t need to talk about this,” he says softly.

“Nah, man, I’ve always wondered, you know? I just don’t want to be sober when I hear about it.”

Dean reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out a large silver flask. He twists off the lid and pulls a long sip before handing it to Castiel. He doubts it will do much for him, but he takes a drink anyway and gives it back to Dean.

Leaning back to his previous position, he lets the memories of Hell surface. He closes his eyes and is silent for a moment, although he feels Dean’s tension practically vibrating through the air.

“You were – well guarded,” he begins cautiously. “And every warrior of Hell felt us arrive. Our presence was – chaotic, you might say. Angels radiate power, light, righteousness, strength. Our true forms are terrifying to humans, but we are devastating to demons.”

“So they noticed you.”

Castiel raises an eyebrow. “We were surrounded immediately by black smoke and fire. Their primary defenses were weak, but that doesn’t mean they didn’t - cause damage.”

Castiel pauses, remembering the utter, incomprehensible horror of seeing the abominations wrapping themselves around his brothers and sisters, around his own essence; demons coming into contact with holy beings, tainting their true forms forever. For demons, touching angels was a suicide mission; angel fire immediately disintegrated the demons’ unholy energy into particles smaller than atoms. But by then the damage was done; the angels were scarred, defiled. It had never once occurred to him that he would come out of hell any different than when he went in. Overconfidence was just one of many mistakes.

“Cas?”

“We dealt with them and moved on,” he says absently. For some reason, he is ashamed to tell Dean of the desecration to his true form.  

“Moved on. So you what, pulled out your angelic road map of hell? ‘X’ marks the spot?”

Cas runs a hand over his face. If only they’d had a map.

“Hell is – vast, Dean. And it expands.”

Dean’s eyes widen. “You’re joking. I mean, I know a thing or two about hell, Cas. But I didn’t know it – grew.”

“Not only does it expand, _grow_ , it twists and remakes itself. Finding you was nearly impossible. After all, torturing demons for information - in hell - is a little redundant.” One corner of his mouth ticks up, in spite of himself.

Dean takes another drink from his flask. Castiel tries to meet his eyes, but Dean’s looking out into the darkness.

“How did you do it, then?” asks a surprisingly rough voice.

“Your soul was an aberration,” Castiel answers immediately.

Dean spits out his whiskey. “Thanks.”

“We may not have known how to get to you, at first, but your soul was not supposed to be there. The sound of your agony resonated all throughout hell.”

Dean seems to consider this. “And all the other souls, they didn’t – resonate?”

Castiel closes his eyes. “The sound of your soul’s suffering was overwhelming. You could say it -”

He pauses, remembers being constantly ambushed by every creature in hell; demons snarling, attacking, ramming the angels’ true forms to tear away pieces of Grace as they dissolved into nothingness. Literal Hell itself, fire and sulfur and unspeakable metaphysical agony, attacked mercilessly, doing anything to try to distract them. He and his brothers brutally forced their way through the solid mass of both corporeal and incorporeal horrors, and the entire time the undercurrent of panic of getting to Dean throbbed like blades stabbing through every photon of light comprising their existence.

To his surprise, he feels warm fingers touch his cheek, and he turns to find Dean staring intently at him.

“Cas?”

“They were muted by the intensity of yours,” he finally answers.

Dean runs his thumb absently along Cas’s chin before removing his hand.

“So you - followed - the sound of my soul? It led you to me?” 

“Not exactly. The sound penetrated everything, everywhere. We could not tell the origin. We fought. We slaughtered anything that got in our way. We ripped our way through blood and bodies and anything else that tried to impede us,” Castiel says softly. “For years, we tore through layer after layer of hell, destroying everything we could. As long as we could hear your soul, we knew we were – getting there.”

“Cas – were there – casualties?” Dean swallows. “How many angels died trying to get to me?”

Dean’s voice breaks, and Castiel really doesn’t want to answer this question. He sighs.

“Dean –“

“How many?” he demands.

“All of them,” he says quietly. “All but me.”

Dean sucks in a breath and hops off the car in a single motion. He has the flask out and is pouring an alarming amount of liquor down his throat. Castiel slides down the hood of the Impala and crosses the space to Dean. He grabs his shoulders and turns him around, and looks into eyes that are dark with an emotion Castiel doesn’t recognize and can’t identify.

“You had to be saved. Your soul was more valuable than any of our lives, Dean. We all knew, going in, that laying siege to hell was a one-way trip.”

“You survived.”

Castiel is silent for a moment. “They protected me. I was the one ordered to pull you out. Their only purpose was to make sure I got to you.”

Dean stares at him. “So they were expendable. Because Heaven said so?”

Castiel tilts his head and studies Dean’s face. Never would he have expected Dean to feel – whatever it is – regret? concern? pity? - for the other angels. Dean hates angels on principle.

“We had a mission, Dean-"

“Don’t give me that ‘we had a mission’ crap! Did you even feel anything when they were killed?”

Castiel flinches. Dean rubs a hand over his face and looks away. “Jesus, Cas, I didn’t-“

“My only concern was getting to you. There wasn’t exactly time to grieve while navigating hell,” he says bitterly. He puts his hands behind him and leans back on the car. Tipping his head back, he returns his attention to the stars. He’s deeply regretting agreeing to this conversation.

“I remember you finding me,” Dean says abruptly.

Castiel drops his gaze in utter shock and looks at him. Dean is holding the flask absently, looking intently at the ground.

“There was this, uh, flashing, blinding light, and screeching. That was you, right? Demons were everywhere and I – I could sense them panicking. Demons. Panicking. I guess word gets around when a badass angel shows up in your neighborhood.” He looks at Castiel thoughtfully, green eyes brilliant under the light of the moon. “And then, I don’t know, man, I felt like I was –“ He pauses, searching for a way to explain. “I felt like I was _absorbed_. It was as if - I was, I don’t know, like my body was – swallowed up into something else?”

Dean’s face completely loses all expression. In a low, monotone voice, he asks, “Cas. Did you swallow me?”

 Cas’s eyes widen as he realizes Dean is serious.

“My true form doesn’t exactly have a mouth,” he says slowly.

Dean raises an eyebrow, and Cas decides the best thing to do at this point is move on. Quickly.

"'Absorbed’ is not entirely inaccurate.” Cas looks at him cautiously. “I surrounded you. I held you within me to shield you from the demons and the forces of hell. They were – not inclined to let you leave.”

Dean’s relief at having _not been swallowed_ is evident. He considers what Castiel told him. “Even though they knew they’d be shredded if they attacked you,” he says tonelessly. “They went for it anyway.”

“Yes. And once I had your soul, they were – much more motivated.”

Dean hands him the flask, and he drinks.

“Could you, I mean, did you feel pain?” Dean’s face is contorted with guilt, and fuck, he should have known Dean would add this to his list of reasons for self-loathing.

“I was more concerned with –"

“Saving my ass, yeah, that’s not what I’m asking, Cas.”

Castiel closes his eyes and sighs. “The damage I suffered to my true form was – unnerving. I was - aware - that my wings were being singed with cold fire, that blades seeping with demon blood were slicing into them. I began to suspect that I wouldn’t have the power to escape. And, yes, it – hurt.”

Dean hops back up on the car next to Castiel.

“Did you heal?”

“Well enough,” he says evasively.

Dean studies him for what seems like an eternity. “How’d you get me out if you weren’t at full power?”

“I don’t know. It’s my belief that – I had help.”

“Help. You mean like, God.”

“You must understand, Dean. Not only was I flying you out of hell, I was using my Grace to shield you, and I was fighting my way through hordes of demons, while Hell itself swirled and twisted around me, and imprisoned souls reached for me, begging me to help them.” His eyes drop to the ground. “And I was alone,” he adds softly. “I could not hear anything from Heaven, and the angels under my command were gone.” He swallows. “What you call ‘angel radio’, it was silent.”

For some reason, Dean turns, puts his arms around him and pulls him to rest against his shoulder. His body feels warm, and the weight of Dean’s arms wrapped around him is soothing. His Grace burns warm inside of him at being so close to Dean.

“How long?” he asks quietly.

“Years, Dean. It was incredibly - relieving to finally experience sunlight on your world. And hearing the joy of my superiors, and the other angels praising my success. Just – hearing them again at all was…” He trails off, unsure if any words in the English language could describe what he felt.

Also Dean’s leg is pressed up against his hip, and Dean’s hand is gently rubbing up and down his back. Castiel is a little distracted.

“And then, once we were out, you just sort of, glued me back together?”

Castiel snorts. “There was a bit more to it than that, Dean. I put your body back together, using my Grace to repair and reassemble every molecule, then disentangled your soul from myself and returned it to your body.”

“And then you stuffed me back in my coffin,” he says, trying to sound pissed and failing. “What if I wasn’t able to get out? I could have suffocated-“

Castiel pulls away from him. “Do you really think,” he says icily, “after everything I just told you, that I would have let you _suffocate_?”

Dean’s face flushes. “Uh, sorry, I wasn’t – look, why did you stick me back in there?”

Castiel turns away. “Dean, I was – my wings, my mind, my entire being, I was – exhausted, for lack of a better word. And I was damaged. I needed to return to Heaven, but my job wasn’t done yet. I had to speak to you, to tell you what happened and why. To tell you Heaven needed you.

“But I also needed you to believe me. By waking up in your - coffin,” he says uncomfortably, “you were able to realize on your own that you’d been raised from Hell. That you were alive, after having been dead.”

Castiel realizes the flask is still in his hand, and he raises it to his lips. When he’s done drinking, Dean grabs it away and downs most of what’s left.

“You know the rest of the story,” Castiel says. “I tried to contact you and you were unable to understand me. That was a bit of a surprise - considering you’d been part of me, literally, for years.”

Dean studies him. “That bothers you,” he observes.

Castiel glances at him and looks away. “I had hoped –“ He sighs. “I entered my vessel, and followed your summoning spell to the barn.”

Dean grins. “You do know how to make an entrance, I’ll give you that.” Smirking, he adds, “Looking back, I gotta say, I mighta been turned on if I hadn’t been afraid for my life.”

Castiel’s eyes widen at the admission.

“But - You shot me, Dean. Over and over. And then you stabbed me.”

“Again – Afraid for my life. I mean you were - you were fucking terrifying! Wings and the sparks flying and _your face_ , Jesus! We threw everything we had at you and you didn’t even flinch!”

Cas narrows his eyes. “Yes, after spending decades in hell trying to save you, it was a pleasant reunion.”

Dean’s mouth clicks shut and he searches Cas’s face. “That bothers you, too,” he says softly. He shakes his head. “Well I gotta ask, what the hell did you expect, Cas?”

Castiel sighs. “I should have expected – I just thought – I thought you would recognize me.”

“How the hell was I supposed to–“

“I thought you would feel it, okay?” he snaps. “Some of my Grace is still inside of you. I thought you would feel that, and sense it within me. I thought you would-“ He gestures at nothing and looks away.

“You thought I’d be happy to see you,” Dean finishes.

Castiel wants to crawl under the car. He never meant to tell Dean about his Grace. He never meant to tell him any of this. He’s afraid to look at Dean, afraid of what he’ll see in his eyes. Pity? Horror? If only he could teleport.

He clears his throat and looks longingly toward the bunker. “Dean, I-“ he begins, but he’s cut off when Dean cups his face and when, exactly, did he move that close?

Dean doesn’t say anything at first, just silently stares into Castiel’s eyes, studying him like he’s never seen him before. “What did you mean when you said I have your Grace inside me?”

Yes, that.

“When I resurrected you, I used Grace to – to sort of hold you together, while I was – your body needed it to – " Dean's face is so close to his he can hardly breathe, let alone think coherently.

“Is Grace holding my body together?” Dean interrupts, eyes wide.

“Yes and no. It’s – complicated.”

“Hmm. So you literally, uh, put part of yourself into me.”

Castiel sighs. Dean is still touching his face, and his eyes are dancing with mischief.

“Does that bother you?” Castiel asks, dreading the answer.

Dean raises his eyebrows. “Honestly, Cas, it makes me feel kind of, I don’t know, safe? Just, for the love of god, don’t tell Sammy. The jokes he'll come up with - we’ll never hear the end of it.”

Cas frowns, not understanding what could possibly be funny about such a serious matter. Dean’s hand slides to his shoulder, and Cas immediately misses the warmth of the hand on his face.

Dean clears his throat. “So, uh, Cas . . . all this time, if it bothered you that I -, I mean the Grace thing, that I didn’t know you -  why didn't you ever say anything?” he blurts.

“I was afraid your reaction would be – negative. And since there’s nothing either one of us can do about it, I saw no reason to trouble you.”

Dean hums. “Well,” he murmurs, “there is one thing I can make up for. I mean, better late than never.” He puts his other hand behind Castiel’s head, grabbing his hair and pulling him closer. He ghosts over Cas’s lips, trying him out, and suddenly devours him. His tongue is on the roof of Cas’s mouth and Cas goes weak, wrapping his arms around Dean for support. Dean puts his arm around Cas’s waist, smashing their bodies together, and pulls back to look at Cas.

“Is this closer to what you were hoping for?” he smirks.

Cas licks his lips and smiles. “It’s better than being stabbed.”

 

 

 

 


End file.
